DER ZIGARETTENANZÜNDER
by Kittystitch
Summary: Chief and Casino endure a lot trying to complete a mission on their own.
1. Chapter 1

**DER ZIGARETTENANZÜNDER**

He didn't need to pretend to be messing with the car. It really did need a tune-up. Chief was surprised they'd been able to drive it this far, all the way into Basel's market square. He stuck his hand out toward Casino. "Hand me the wrench."

Casino slapped it into his outstretched palm. "How much longer?"

"Almost done."

"No, stupid. How much longer do ya think we'll have to wait for the hand-off. The guy's late."

Chief straightened and wiped his greasy hands on a rag. The square was still busy with end-of-week shoppers grabbing up what was left in the stalls and shops. Garrison still sat on a stone bench on the opposite side of the square, patiently throwing chunks of moldy bread to a growing flock of pigeons. These shadowy connections with other agents never happened on schedule. Lots of things could get fouled up, and Casino had the patience of a two-year-old. But the afternoon was dying. Chief wondered how much longer the Warden would wait before calling it a day.

He went back to adjusting the spark plugs, scraping away the built-up crap with the edge of his small blade, the one he kept stowed in his boot. It'd need a good sharpening when he got the chance. But it felt good to have something useful to do with his hands while they waited, instead of just watching and trying to blend in.

"Hold on. I think we got some action." Casino leaned down and joined him under the hood, but continued to watch what was playing out across the square.

The pigeons scattered as a well-dressed older man joined Garrison on the bench. Neither acknowledged the other, and the pigeons returned as Garrison tossed them more crumbs. The man took off his hat and laid it between them on the bench, then pulled out a newspaper and started reading.

"They're gonna drag this out, aren't they?" Casino complained.

Chief was tightening the last spark plug into place when he saw Garrison pull the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and shake one out. He put it in his mouth, then started searching for matches, unsuccessfully. Casually, he turned to the man next to him and said something. The man smiled and nodded, and took a cigarette lighter from his jacket pocket. He flicked it into a flame, and Garrison reached up to hold it steady as he lit his cigarette. Then he nodded a polite "merci". You had to be watching closely to notice Garrison palm the lighter and slip it into his own pocket along with his pack of cigarettes.

Chief pretended to play with the engine for another ten minutes, while Casino pretended to be interested. Finally the older man folded his newspaper and got up to leave. He strolled across the square and past their car, as he headed into the side street to their right. Two guys in dark suits followed him.

Chief nudged Casino.

"I see it."

There was nothing they could do but watch as the guys pulled hand guns, grabbed the old man by both arms, and hustled him away.

Garrison still fed the pigeons, oblivious to what was happening.

"That ain't good." Chief slammed the hood shut, nearly catching Casino's fingers in it. There were two other guys in suits heading towards the stone bench. Garrison's head snapped up at the sound of them approaching him from behind. When Garrison stood to confront them, he found pistols trained on him. He raised his hands defensively, but they were immediately yanked down and tied behind him.

"Oh shit," Casino breathed. "'Ain't good' is an understatement. Now what?"

Chief didn't have to think for long. "We follow the Warden."

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The car that the men had shoved Garrison into wound through the narrow streets of Basel at a leisurely pace. Chief knew how to detect a tail, and how to lose one, but trying to stay out of sight of a car you were following was a different game, especially when the car was moving as slow as this one.

"You're gettin' too close," Casino complained.

"Will you shut up."

"I'm just sayin', they're gonna see us."

"No, they ain't." For the second time, Chief tried a calculated move, turning left, taking a parallel street, then picking up the tail again several blocks down the road.

Finally the car turned into an alley next to a bar. Chief pulled to the curb just short of it. "If they get him inside, we're outta luck. We'd be goin' in blind."

"Wait here." Casino opened the car door and got out. "Be ready to come around that corner fast."

Chief knew what Casino had planned. He pulled forward slightly, just enough so he could see Casino staggering toward the parked car, doing a pretty good imitation of a drunk. The two men were just pulling Garrison from the back seat.

Casino's words were slurred Italian, but they were enough to get the attention of Garrison's captors, who both turned in his direction. One shouted in German, evidently telling him to get lost. But Casino stumbled up to the nearest, throwing his arm around the guy's shoulders like he was his long lost best friend.

With his hands still tied behind him, Garrison tensed and backed up against the car, ready for whatever was going to happen. When Casino's friend tried to pull away, Casino lashed out with a powerful right that sent the guy sprawling back into the garbage cans. His buddy didn't react fast enough to avoid Casino's left upper-cut.

The tires squealed as Chief popped the clutch and swerved into the alley. Casino already had Garrison by the arm, pulling him away from his kidnappers, when the gun fire started. Bullets smacked into the grill. One blasted through the windshield and whistled past his ear. Casino yanked the back door open, shoved Garrison onto the seat, and jumped in after him. Even before the door was closed, Chief threw the car into reverse and slammed down on the accelerator. The open door smashed against a stanchion at the end of the alley as he careened backward into the street. Then he spun the wheel, pushed it into a forward gear, and floored the accelerator again, the rear door hanging on by a hinge.

The dangling door fell off at his first sharp turn. After a couple more miles of random turns, making sure they weren't followed, his heart rate slowed. The damaged motor sounded like a cement mixer full of bricks, and smoke billowed from under the hood. He turned onto a side street and cut the engine. "We gotta get new wheels. This wreck ain't goin' any farther."

"Make it quick. The Warden's hit."

Oh shit. He turned in his seat. "How bad?"

"I'm okay." Garrison pushed himself up, clutching at his right side. Blood oozed between his fingers and soaked his shirt.

"You ain't okay," Casino insisted. "You're bleedin' like a stuck pig. Where's the first aid kit?"

"Under the front seat." Chief got out of the car. "Stay here. I'll find a new ride."

As he ran back toward the main street, he heard Casino yell after him, "Where the hell do ya think we're gonna go?"

There was no time to be choosy. He picked the first car he came across and had it hot-wired in under a minute. When he got back, Casino was tying off the bandage he'd wrapped around Garrison's middle.

"How bad is it?"

"I'm fine. I'll make it."

They both helped the Warden out of the damaged car. He was able to walk on his own, but the tight lines around his eyes gave away the pain he was trying to hide. He eased carefully into the back seat of the new car. Casino got in after him, carrying the first aid kit.

When Chief climbed into the driver's seat, Garrison said, "Head north, out of town."

"North?" Casino exclaimed. "What's north besides Germany?"

"The Hegler farm. There's a radio. If we're lucky, we'll be able to get a plane out of here."

"Ya wanna show me where we're goin'?" Chief asked.

"They took the maps. And everything else I had on me. Just get on the first road heading north."

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On the drive out of town, Garrison explained that the Maquis, just across the border, used the abandoned farm to store supplies and the radio. The empty fields were used for supply drops and late-night landings. It was their closest refuge and best hope for getting out of Switzerland without the Krauts catching on.

The two-room farmhouse sat 50 yards from a barn, in a clearing overgrown with weeds. Chief parked at the edge of the woodland, and as quickly as he could, circled on foot through the trees around the house, making sure they were alone.

Garrison eased gingerly from the back seat. Chief took his arm, trying to support him, but the Warden shook him off. Once inside he limped to the lone bed in the far corner and stretched out on the bare mattress. Fresh blood soaked the bandage.

Garrison was trying hard to mask his pain, but Chief didn't like the looks of all that blood. He headed for the kitchen area to his right, where there was a hand pump, a sink, a few pots and pans, and a wood stove. There were only ashes and a half burned log in the stove. "We need to get a fire started," he told Casino. "There's some dry wood stacked right outside."

"There's a root cellar in the barn." Garrison's voice was tight, his breathing shallow. "There's a door hidden behind some shelving. There should be some supplies and the radio. You'll have to bring it up here to get any reception."

Chief had expected some kind of smart-ass complaint from Casino, but instead he set to work, first bringing in a couple of logs and some kindling, and then heading out for the barn.

Chief got the fire started, and filled one of the pots with water from the pump. It didn't take long for it to start to simmer. He took it over to the bed and set it on the floor, then carefully removed the blood-soaked bandage. Garrison winced as he pulled the gauze loose. With clean gauze from the first aid kit, dampened with the hot water, he tried gently to clean the wound. The bullet had gone all the way through flesh, hopefully not hitting anything vital. There was a clean hole in his back that had stopped bleeding. Just under his ribs, a larger, messier exit wound in front still bled freely. "This needs closin' up."

"It'll have to wait."

"Wait? Wait for what? For you to bleed to death?" This was something Actor usually took care of, but Actor wasn't here. Chief dug through the first aid kit, trying to remember the training they'd gotten soon after starting this gig with Garrison. He could sew it up. He'd stitched up a knife gash in his own thigh once. But he didn't have a needle. Or anything to use as sutures. His next best option was his heated blade.

The stitching he could handle, but he wasn't so sure about the cauterizing. He tried to remember all the details from that one day of instruction, about how to clean the blade, how hot to make it, how to keep from damaging too much tissue. His stomach knotted.

The door banged open as Casino pushed through with an armload of supplies and the radio. "How's he look?"

"Any medical supplies out there? Bandages, sulpha, maybe some morphine?"

"Bandages. And food and weapons. That bad, huh?"

"I said it'll have to wait..." Garrison tried to sit, but Chief held him down with a hand on his chest. It didn't take much.

"It waits, you die."

Garrison again tried to sit. "Chief, the mission..."

"Screw the mission, Warden. You're bleedin', and Actor ain't here."

He went back to the stove, snapping his blade from its sheath. He found a half-empty bottle of whiskey on a top shelf, and he pulled it down. He popped the cork and drizzled the liquid over his blade. As he held it over the open flame, he felt the heat build in the handle. When it was almost too hot to hold, he turned back to sit on the edge of the bed, holding the bottle out to Garrison. "You wanna finish off the whiskey before I get started?"

Garrison was sweating and pale, and his eyes glistened with the effort to control the pain. The look he gave Chief was...fear? Resignation? Trust? Garrison drew in a ragged breath. "No. No whiskey."

Chief looked to Casino. "Hold him down. This is gonna smart."

Kneeling on the floor at the head of the bed, Casino pinned Garrison's arms to the mattress, above his head. "You sure you know what you're doin'?"

"I'm sure," he lied. He steadied his hand with a deep breath and a tighter grip on the knife.

At the first touch of the scalding blade to torn flesh, Garrison sucked in a breath, straining against Casino's grip. Chief tried to work fast, with short applications of the red-hot blade. He had to return to the stove several times to reheat it. He wiped away the blood as he worked, so he could see what he was doing, carefully closing off the bleeding a little at a time. He tried to focus, to disconnect from the burning smell, and the moans that escaped between the Warden's clenched teeth, tried to concentrate on the process, the mechanics. Tried to forget that this was a man he trusted, who had saved his life too many times to count. A man who believed in him. And now he was probably killing him.

When he glanced up, Casino's eyes were closed, and he looked as pale as Garrison. Or maybe it was just the dying light.

Garrison was too tough for his own good. He remained conscious through most of it, tears squeezing from his eyes. He finally passed out as Chief pressed the scalding blade one last time to the singed wound, making sure all the bleeding had stopped.

The room was quiet in the fading light as Chief applied sulfa powder and a loose bandage. He ran his tongue over his dry lips and swiped his sleeve across his mouth, watching the Warden's shallow breathing. Chief hoped he hadn't put him through the agony for nothing.

Casino finally stood, laying Garrison's arms gently by his sides, and went to the counter to sort through the supplies he'd brought in from the barn. Chief stretched out his cramped fingers and joined Casino at the sink to scrub his knife in what was left of the hot water.

"Where's Dr. Beautiful when you need him, right?" Casino popped the tops off of two ration cans of stew. "Runnin' some kinda cushy con back in London with that lucky little limey."

"Nazi spooks in London have guns same as the ones over here." Chief dried his blade on his pants leg and shoved it back in its home.

Setting the stew on the room's only table, Casino pulled up a chair and had a seat. "You know how to radio London?"

"No. Don't you?" Chief took the chair opposite him.

"I know how to work the radio, but I got no idea what frequency. Or the code."

Chief dug into the sloppy stew and stirred it up, but he couldn't bring himself to eat it. His stomach was still wadded in a tight knot.

"He gonna be alright?"

"How should I know," Chief snapped, instantly regretting it. He looked over at his commander, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully now. "Yeah, I think so, if we can get him back to England." He hoped it wasn't another lie.

Casino was almost done with his stew when he finally spoke again. "Whaddaya think he meant about the mission?"

"You know the Warden. He don't like to leave things half done."

"He's crazy if he thinks we got any chance of gettin' that lighter back."

"He's the boss. If he says go, we go."

"You're as crazy as he is." Casino bolted from his chair and took his empty can to the sink. "You two are gonna get us killed."

"I can hear you, you know." Garrison's voice was raspy but strong.

Chief was immediately at his side with the canteen. "How's it feel?"

"Like a third degree burn."

He helped Garrison sit up carefully to lean back against the wall, and handed him the canteen. Garrison took a few tentative sips, then handed it back. "The mission's not over."

"Whaddya mean, 'not over'?" Casino spit. "The Krauts made us. If they have that lighter, the microfilm's long gone."

"Not necessarily. Those guys didn't seem to have any idea what they were looking for. They were just foot soldiers." Garrison paused and took a careful breath. "They're expecting some big wigs from Berlin tomorrow. We can't let them get hold of the lighter."

"So whaddya suggest? We just walk up and ask them for it?"

"Something like that."

"You're outta your mind. I always knew you had a screw loose." Casino turned to the radio and started flipping switches. "Gimme the frequency and the code. I'm callin' London, and we're gettin' outta here on the first plane headin' west."

Chief knew there was no use arguing. "What's your plan, Warden?"

Garrison sat a little straighter, trying to hide his wince. "They were going to take me into the back of that bar, right? Their hideout is probably in a back room or basement. First we have to case the bar, see what we're up against. Then we can improvise a plan."

"That's insane." Casino turned from the radio. "First of all, you ain't goin' nowhere. Secondly, they'd recognize me right off."

"I don't think so. It's not like they got a good look at you. Nice move, by the way." Garrison managed a smile. "You just need a disguise. A hat, a different shirt."

"Yeah, and where am I suppose to get that?"

"Do I always have to remind you what you did for a living?"

Casino shook his head and turned back to the radio. "No way. That's suicide. I ain't doin' it."

Garrison pushed away from the wall and tried to stand. "Okay, Chief, it's you and me."

Chief caught him as he faltered. "Ain't happenin', Warden. You won't even make it to the car. Me and Casino'll check the place out."

"Speak for yourself, Indian. I ain't..."

"We get the lighter, or you don't get the radio code," Garrison threatened.

Casino huffed a sigh of frustrated resignation. "Suicidal idiots. Both of you."

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They'd left Garrison well supplied with food and water within easy reach of where he sat on the bed. They'd also left him a good supply of weapons and ammunition, including a half dozen hand grenades from the stash in the root cellar. He told them that if their refuge was discovered, he'd blow the place up, himself with it. Chief didn't doubt that he'd do it.

By the time they got back into Basel, it was late. They'd passed a second-hand shop on the way, and Chief had pulled onto a side street while Casino quickly broke in through a back door and swiped a disguise. He got back into the car wearing a smelly sweater and a misshapen tweed newsboy's cap.

"Here, I picked up a little somethin' for you, too." He plopped a beat-up fedora on Chief's head.

"Funny." Chief ripped it off and threw it into the back seat, ignoring Casino's amused chuckle.

When Chief parked across the street from the bar, it was the only business still open. They walked down the dark alley first. It was now empty except for a stray dog snuffling through the garbage from the overturned trash cans. There was a back door, but it was bolted tight.

When they entered the barroom through the front, it was loud and smokey, busy with an after-work crowd of local laborers. Chief chose a table in a dark corner, while Casino ordered, returning with a couple of beers and a bowl of stale pretzel pieces. He sat and took another look around the room. "Our friendly, neighborhood spies apparently ain't drinkin' tonight."

"So we wait." Chief popped a pretzel chunk in his mouth. He needed something to keep the beer from going to his head. As an hour dragged out, the crowd thinned. Casino refilled the pretzel bowl several times.

Garrison was alone, injured and vulnerable out at the farm. The old man who'd handed off the lighter had probably spilled his guts and was dead by now. The waiting finally ate away the last of Chief's patience, and he drained the dregs of his second beer. "This ain't gettin' us nowhere. I say we go in through the back door and take our chances."

"Sounds good to me. I can't drink much more of this swill." Casino stood to leave, but halted when a tall, thick-set character dressed in a pin-striped suit emerged from a door in the back and went to speak to the bartender.

Casino quickly sat back down. "That's one of 'em."

Chief studied the newcomer. He was heavy-set, but looked powerful. A prominent scar down his left cheek distorted his mouth, and a weapon bulged under his suit jacket. "Wonder where his buddy's hidin'."

"Good question."

They settled back to wait and watch, as the goon in the suit leaned casually on the bar, chatting with the bartender and one of the patrons, a wiry little guy in coveralls. The conversation seemed friendly, judging by the laughter. Coveralls pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and stuck one in his mouth. Scarface was quick to whip out a lighter and do the honors.

"Could we be so lucky?" Casino breathed.

"Everybody's got a lighter. How do ya know that's it?"

"Look, it has that fancy thing on top. And that sparkly inlay, like the Warden said."

"So now what? You gonna go ask him to give it back?

Casino stood and flexed his fingers. "I've lifted a few wallets in my time. And I've been watchin' Goniff."

"Watchin' ain't doin'."

"What's the worse that could happen? So it's not the same one. So I'll have a fancy new lighter."

"You're nuts..."

But Casino had already walked away, striding confidently up to the bar. He moved in beside Scarface, leaning in to order a drink. When the bartender handed him the glass, he stepped back and deftly collided with Scarface, spilling the whiskey down the front of his pretty suit. Casino gushed apologies in Italian, pulling a rag from a back pocket and wiping down the front of Scarface's jacket. Casino's hand slipped into the goon's side pocket so quickly that Chief almost missed it.

But it wasn't slick enough. When Casino started backing away, Scarface caught him by the arm. Casino attempted to stay with the con, pretending not to know what the problem was, trying to pull from the tight grip. It didn't work. Scarface swung out and landed a powerful blow, sending Casino flying back into a table and crashing to the floor.

Damn Casino and his clumsy arrogance. Chief bolted from his chair, trying to formulate a plan as he reached Casino, lying among pieces of the broken table. Maybe he could just give the lighter back and ease them both out of here. He tried to help Casino up, but he was out cold.

And Scarface was standing over him, with a gun pointed at his head. "Gib mir den Zigarettenanzünder."

Slowly Chief stood and backed away, his hands out.

Scarface yanked Chief's pistol from where it was tucked in his belt, then smiled as he pulled the switchblade from its sheath, flicking it open with glee. He reached down and retrieved the lighter from Casino's pocket, but never let the gun waver from its target between Chief's eyes. "Hol ihn ab."

Chief just stared at him, uncertain what he wanted, but acutely aware that his hesitation could get him shot.

"Hol ihn ab! Nehmen Sie ihn durch dort." With the gun, Scarface gestured at the door in the back that he'd come through earlier.

Chief got the picture. Reaching down, he pulled Casino's arm across his shoulders and lifted him. Scarface punched him in the back with the gun, and he dragged Casino's dead weight toward the rear door.

Past the door was a steep wooden stairway twisting down into a dark corridor. Scarface continued to prod him until they reached the end of the hall, where he opened another door and pushed them inside. It was a utility room, with an oil furnace in the center. Pipes ran up the walls and along the ceiling. There were a couple of chairs that looked like they'd been salvaged from a dump, and a sturdy, shiny new safe.

At a beat up desk, a skinny bald guy sat with his feet up, smoking. He straightened as they entered. "Wer ist das?"

"Diebe. Sie stahlen mein Zigarettenanzünder," Scarface growled.

Chief sat Casino against the nearest wall and tried to get a look at the bleeding cut on his left temple, where he'd evidently hit the edge of the table.

"Lass ihn in Ruhe." Scarface grabbed his arm and pulled him away, shoving the bore of the gun into his ribs.

Baldy issued sharp orders and pulled ropes from a bottom drawer. While Baldy held the gun, Scarface tightly knotted a rope around Chief's wrists, then tied his hands over his head to a pipe that ran along the back wall, near the ceiling. The pipe was just low enough so that if he stood straight, he wouldn't pull on the ropes. Still, they were wrapped tight enough to cut off circulation. After Scarface finished with Chief, he tied Casino's hands behind him and bound his ankles, leaving him lying against the wall where Chief had put him.

The two Krauts congratulated each other as they opened the safe and threw the cigarette lighter inside. They didn't take the time to inspect it, but they must've guessed it was important. Laughing and slapping each other on the back, they left, turning off the light and locking the door behind them.


	2. Chapter 2

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It must be after midnight, Chief judged. At least an hour had passed as he leaned against the cinderblock wall in the darkness. He tried to get loose, but the knot was on top of the pipe, next to the ceiling, out of his reach no matter how far he stretched. He tried to keep the ropes from tightening on his wrists, but it didn't help much. His hands were growing numb.

Casino hadn't budged. From the brief look Chief had gotten at the gash on his head, it didn't look deep, but he'd been unconscious for too long.

There was only one reason he could think of for why he was strung up like a side of beef. He was being softened up for questioning. They'd be back eventually, or they'd leave him for whoever was arriving from Berlin in the morning. Either way, he didn't like his odds.

Garrison was probably wondering what happened to them, probably imagining all kinds of trouble they could've gotten themselves into. How long would he wait before he radioed for a pick-up? Or before he came after the lighter himself? He was just crazy enough to try it, even shot up so bad he could hardly move.

Footsteps outside the door snapped his attention back to the moment. A key rattled in the lock, and he squinted against the shaft of light that split the darkness when the door swung open. Then the overhead light flared on.

Scarface was alone this time. He'd lost his suit jacket, his tie was pulled loose, and his stained shirt hung out. He staggered up close to Chief and slurred something that sounded obscene. He reeked of bad whiskey, and his breath smelled like he'd been eating dead rats.

From his pocket, Scarface pulled Chief's knife and snapped it open. His disfigured face distorted into a lurid grin as he fondled the blade, running his fingers along its lethal edge as if it were a lover's cheek, whispering to it in German.

Then he turned his attention back to Chief, the grin becoming a menacing leer. He pressed the point of the blade under Chief's chin and flicked it. Chief gritted his teeth and suppressed a wince when the sharp metal sliced open a cut.

Scarface continued to stare into his eyes, muttering in German, as he dragged the blade's point down Chief's neck, hard enough to scratch, then slipped it under the placket of his shirt. It didn't take much pressure for the razor-sharp blade to slice the buttons off, leaving his shirt hanging open, his silver medallion exposed. Scarface lifted the chain with the point of the blade and fondled the small metal, trying to read the inscription. With a short little chuckle, he pressed the metal firmly back against Chief's chest with the warm, damp palm of his hand.

Chief tried to pull away from the clammy touch, flattening himself back against the wall. The dark, glaring eyes held an evil Chief hadn't seen for a long time. The evil of an unhinged mind, fired by alcohol, ready to pleasure itself in ways a sane person couldn't imagine. He knew what the lunatic wanted, and he wasn't about to give it to him.

Scarface dragged the keen point across Chief's chest to his left nipple and with another flick, sliced through tender skin. Chief flinched at the sudden sting.

Scarface was breathing hard now, drooling, as he slowly pulled the knife downward, cutting a deep furrow as he went. Teeth clenched, Chief managed to keep from gasping at the sharp burn, but he groaned involuntarily when the blade slashed open a gash beneath his ribs.

He tightened every muscle, his breathing coming in short gulps, as the blade continued slicing its searing, bloody trail down his stomach. At his navel, it carved another sudden deep gouge, and again his moan caught in his throat. If he was about to be gutted by his own blade, it'd be a good way to die.

Leaning in close with his stinking breath, whispering something guttural, Scarface patted him gently on the cheek. Chief returned the hellish leer with all the defiance he could muster, refusing to give the bastard any satisfaction in his sick little game. Then the knife pushed lower, catching and tugging at his belt, slipping in and scratching against his abdomen. Scarface giggled drunkenly.

This wasn't about a slow death anymore. Chief sucked in a breath, grabbed hold of the ropes, and with one powerful upward kick, smashed his knee up between Scarface's legs. The goon screamed and crumpled, dropping the knife. Chief watched the man's agony, waiting for the payback, knowing he was helpless against it. Dying by his own blade was better than what Scarface had in mind.

Scarface recovered surprisingly fast, surging from the floor, murder blazing in his eyes. He whipped out his gun and rammed it against Chief's forehead, slamming his head back against the cinderblock.

"Hans!" Baldy shouted from the open doorway. "Töte ihn nicht."

Scarface seethed, his bloodshot eyes narrowed, his mutilated face flushed with rage, looking like some kind of hellish clown. His finger twitched on the trigger.

This was it. He was supposed to see his life flash before his eyes. But all he felt was disappointment at dying by the gun instead of his blade.

"Hans, leg die Waffe nieder."

With one last punch of the gun bore against Chief's forehead, Scarface slowly lowered it, muttering under his breath.

Baldy snatched the gun, picked up the knife from where it had skidded across the floor, and barked orders. Scarface spit a retort, and the argument turned into a shouting match. As hard as he tried, Chief couldn't pick up even a word of it. He could guess, though. Scarface wanted him dead - or worse. Baldy wanted him alive for the big bosses to play with in the morning. Finally, Baldy won. Scarface gave Chief one last threatening growl and stormed from the room.

Baldy wasn't exactly sober, either. He just stood there, first staring at Casino still motionless on the floor, then turning his gaze on Chief. He reached out and smeared the blood across Chief's stomach, then wiped his hand down the front of Chief's shirt. Grumbling to himself, he followed his partner out the door, closing and locking it behind him.

Chief slumped against the wall, hanging from the ropes that bound him to the pipe, his hands too numb to feel it. Each gulp of air pulled at the slashes, inflaming the sting. As his adrenalin drained away and his breathing slowed, the sting turned into a throbbing burn.

The moan was soft at first, almost inaudible.

"Casino?"

The moan slurred into words. "What the hell...what happened?"

"You okay?"

"I dunno..." The moan was louder as Casino tried to move. "Ask me when the jackhammer stops."

"Been watchin' Goniff, huh?"

"Guess I need more practice..."

"Scoot over here."

"What? Why?"

"My boot knife. They didn't find it."

"Ah ha." Casino struggled to sit, making two unsuccessful attempts before he was upright. "Knew that thing would come in handy some day."

Inching his way across the floor, Casino had to stop twice, closing his eyes and breathing hard. Dried blood matted his hair and covered the left side of his face. He finally nudged up next to Chief, and with his hands bound behind him, grappled at the top of Chief's left boot.

"The other one," Chief hissed.

"Oh yeah..."

Clumsily, Casino pulled the small knife out of its hiding place. It took him a couple of tries to get it open, and even longer to get it positioned to cut through the ropes around his wrists. After ten minutes, Chief was sure the two Krauts were going to come busting back through the door. "Will ya hurry it up?"

"Back off, Geronimo. I can't feel my hands. And this thing's dull as a butter knife. What have you been cuttin' with it?"

"Just get it done, will ya?"

Finally, the ropes around Casino's wrists snapped loose. He fumbled to untie his ankles, but when he stood, he swayed and grabbed out for the wall to keep from falling.

"Take it easy, man..." Chief didn't like Casino's pallor, or the renewed bleeding from the scalp wound.

Casino shook his head, steadied himself, and got his first look at Chief's wounds. "What happened to you? Looks like you ran into a buzz saw."

"Just cut me down."

The knife sliced roughly through the ropes around the pipe, and Chief dropped his arms, flexing his numb fingers and rubbing at the raw abrasions on his wrists. "The lighter's in the safe."

"Nobody says thanks anymore."

"We ain't got all night."

Casino regarded the safe critically. "Brand new. One of those cheap little jobs. These guys'll never learn."

While Casino went to work on the safe, Chief searched the desk drawers, coming up with two fully loaded Lugers and an extra cartridge magazine.

Even with numb fingers, Casino had the safe open in under a minute. Along with the lighter, they also took a thick envelope and a wad of cash, leaving the safe empty. Casino closed it back up, reset the dial, and wiped it down with his shirt sleeve.

gg gg gg gg gg gg

Although Casino easily unlocked the door to the hallway, he was still unsteady on his feet. As they made their way up the back stairs to the alley, Chief stayed close behind him, catching him once when he lost his balance.

Even the stray dog was now gone, evidently having found everything of interest in the garbage. The bar had closed, and the street was deserted, but their car still sat alone at the opposite curb. Maybe their luck was changing.

As he steered the car through the empty streets, the numbness in his hands turned to tingling, then to a burning throb that made it hard to grip the wheel. Sitting next to him, Casino had checked both weapons, then slumped into the seat, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Chief wasn't sure he should let him sleep, but he figured Casino's head had to hurt at least as much as his hands, so he let him be.

The sun was just coming up as he reached the dirt track that lead down to the farm. As he swung the car off the road, the smell hit him. He slammed on the brakes.

Casino came to and glanced around, realizing where they were. "Why're ya stoppin'?"

"You don't smell it?"

Casino sniffed. "The wood stove, right?"

It was more than the wood stove. It burned his throat and stung his eyes. And made his heart pound.

Casino caught on. "Oh shit...You don't think he..."

Chief bolted from the car and ran the rest of the way through the woods to the edge of the clearing, Casino close behind him. The scene in the farm yard stopped him short, froze his breath in his chest. The shell of a black sedan sat in the open, the remains of its upholstery still smoking. All that was left of the farm house were the stone chimney and the blackened, smoldering timbers of two walls. The roof was gone, the other walls had collapsed, and pockets of embers still glowed among the ruins. Nothing could be left alive in that. Garrison had done it. When the Krauts came for him, he blew the place up.

Slowly, stepping over scorched debris, Chief made his way into the yard, his heart pounding in his throat. Next to the car lay the partially burned body of Scarface, a bullet hole in the center of his chest. Chief forced himself toward what was left of the house, steeling himself against what he knew he'd find there, only vaguely aware of Casino following him.

Ashes and charred wood. Bits of destroyed furniture. The iron wood stove standing alone and intact, looking bizarrely out of place in all the destruction. A small fire still smoldering in the remains of the mattress. Two bodies, both burned beyond recognition. The only thought forcing its way into his head was that they had to identify which was Garrison...

The sound was so faint that Chief thought he'd imagined it. He cocked his head, listening for it again.

At his shoulder, Casino was staring down at one of the blackened corpses. "Which one do ya think..."

"Sssshh!"

"What?"

"Shut up!"

It came again, still faint. The familiar three-note whistle. He replied with the four-note answer.

This time they both heard it, from the direction of the barn. "Casino. Chief. Up here."

They found Garrison in the hay loft, sitting against a hay bale, next to the large loading door overlooking the farm yard. He still held onto one grenade, and two more lay in the hay next to him, along with a rifle. "What took you guys so long?"

gg gg gg gg gg gg

The day had been a gift. The fragrant sweet, dry hay had almost overcome the stench from the farm yard below. Chief had cleaned and rebandaged Garrison's wounds, which had reopened with his effort to carry the radio and weapons up into the loft. He'd tended to the gash in Casino's head, and then did the best he could with his own cuts. After the Warden had radioed London to arrange for a plane to pick them up that night, Chief had returned the radio to its hiding place in the root cellar.

They'd eaten, slept, and shared the two full canteens of water Garrison had brought up to the loft with him. They'd taken turns on watch. Garrison had insisted on taking his turn, but he was pale and weak. Chief had kept an eye on him. On Casino, too, who'd claimed the aspirin had helped his head, but who still seemed unsteady.

When the sun had disappeared below the horizon and the first star appeared, they left their comfortable nest in the hay loft and walked the half mile out to the barren field where their rescuers would land. Garrison had refused their help, but they'd stopped twice while he caught his breath.

Now there was enough moonlight that Chief had no trouble finding dry deadfall to build a fire out in the open field. He left it burning low and returned to where Garrison and Casino sat just inside the tree line. With the gasoline he'd siphoned from the car into the empty whiskey bottle, he could easily flare it into full flame as soon as they heard the plane approaching.

"Those cuts must sting." Garrison indicated the gashes along his chest and stomach as Chief settled into the leaves next to him.

"Some." They'd started oozing again, and Chief wiped away the blood with his shirt tail.

"What happened?"

"Scarface got a little playful with his questionin'."

"Scarface?"

"The one back there with the slug in his chest."

"Lemme tell ya, Warden, prison screws ain't got nothin' on these twisted Nazis." Casino reached over and swatted Chief on the knee. "At least you'll have some interesting new scars to show off to Hannah."

Hannah. Chief turned to look out into the field, hiding his smile. She never asked about his cuts and bruises, but her warm, gentle touch always made the pain go away.

Pulling the lighter from his pocket, Garrison snapped it open. "Well, you got what we came for, and then some. Nice work, you two."

"I hope it's all worth the price." Casino rubbed at the thick bandage around his head.

"Believe me, it is."

As they sat quietly, the woodlands came to life around them. Crickets chirped, and night-loving creatures scurried through the undergrowth in search of a meal. A couple of barn owls far in the distance screeched at each other. You could close your eyes and almost imagine that this was a world where only barn owls fought over territory.

Casino broke the silence. "You must have a lot of scars, Warden. When was the first time you got shot?"

Garrison almost laughed, then caught himself when it hurt. "I'm not sure I want to tell you."

"Ah, c'mon. Can't be that embarrassin'."

"My plebe year at the Point. A buddy and I 'borrowed' a couple of Colts from the armory and went out into the woods to practice. Let's just say we both needed a lot of practice."

"He shot you?"

"Not on purpose."

"Where'd he hit ya?"

The Warden pulled up his left pant leg to reveal a puckered scar just above his ankle. "I was lucky it didn't break anything. But I spent most of that year walking off those hours."

"Huh?"

A wan smile turned up the corners of his mouth. "Taking the punishment."

Chief tried to picture the Warden in his cadet uniform, standing at attention, getting screamed at by a superior. He smiled. "Our Warden. The renegade."

"I knew I shouldn't have told you." Garrison gingerly adjusted his position against the tree trunk. "Since we're all sharing here, how about you, Casino? That bullet to the shoulder a while back wasn't the first time, was it?"

Casino snapped the stick he'd been fiddling with. "Naw, the first time was what got me sent to Rahway. No one counted on the pawn shop clerk bein' armed. Trigger-happy little sonofabitch." He looked up and chuckled. "Now I have matching scars on both shoulders."

The crickets and owls took over again, and a light breeze picked up through the trees. Chief watched the faint glow of the fire's embers out in the field, feeling his companions' eyes watching him.

"C'mon, Geronimo. Your turn."

He took a deep breath. Garrison knew the story. He wasn't sure Casino did. But he was in no mood to talk about it. "Statenville. The prison break."

"And they're paying for that," Garrison reminded him gently.

"They're payin' for killin' the guard," Chief corrected.

A new sound in the distance caught his ear, and he held up a hand for silence. The faint drone of an airplane engine.

Garrison heard it, too, and cocked his head, listening carefully.

"Theirs or ours?" Casino asked.

A grin split Garrison's face. "Ours. Go light the fire, Chief."

gg gg gg gg gg gg

Chief had hoped it would be a quiet night at The Doves, so maybe Hannah could get off early. No such luck. A whole platoon must've been on leave. She'd given him a quick smile when he came in, but the crowd was keeping her running, balancing trays of glasses and dodging out of the grasp of drunk GI's. She made it look graceful, like a dance, her brightly colored skirt swirling around her legs, her hair a fiery tangled halo around her girlish face.

He'd picked up an ale at the bar and found a small table in the far corner to wait. And think. The Warden had looked tired and stiff this morning, but he was already back in uniform. He'd called them into his office and told them again what a great job they'd done, completing a tough mission against tougher odds. They'd probably saved a lot of lives. Chief knew all that. What he couldn't shake was the hollow-gut numbness of believing that the Warden had been dying, and he couldn't do anything about it. Or that he'd blown himself to bits rather than get captured. The stench of burning flesh and of dead rats. The slimy feel of Scarface's hand on his cheek, and against his chest. The searing burn of his own blade slicing him open, the image of his insides splattered across the floor.

He took a gulp of his ale, but it couldn't clear away the taste in his mouth or the dark, tight tangle in his chest. Tonight he wanted Hannah's warmth, the magic that absorbed all the tension, softened the pain, and erased the pictures in his head.

Hannah startled him when she sat down at his table. "I have to talk to you."

He smiled at her sweet Scottish lilt. "Sure. When you get done, we can..."

She squeezed his hand, and her brows knitted together. "Jonny's been hurt."

Her fiancé, the young Brit fighting in Italy. The knot in his chest tightened. "How bad?"

"I don't know. They won't tell us anything. But they're sending him home." Her smile was desperate, tears welled up and escaped from her green eyes. "I'm leaving after work to go stay with his mum in London."

"Tonight?"

"We're worried sick, and she's all alone..."

He took a deep breath, trying to loosen the damned knot. "You got a way to get there?" He thought he might be able to nab a jeep.

"Gerald's loaning me his car." Again she squeezed his hand, and he squeezed back. Hers was warm, small and delicate in his. Her cheeks sparkled with her tears, and she stared into his eyes, as if desperately searching for something there. "You understand, don't you? Please tell me you understand."

He rubbed his thumb lightly over a callus on her palm. This day had come much too soon. "Yeah. Sure. You gotta to go."

She pulled her hand from his, and swiped at her cheeks. "Chief, I'm sorry. I need to finish up here..."

When she rose to leave, he caught her arm. "Hey. He'll be okay."

She smiled at him one last time and leaned in to kiss him on the mouth, sweet and lingering.

"There he is! Didn't I tell ya he'd be here?" Casino bounced down the steps, taking them two at a time, Goniff close on his heels. "C'mon, Geronimo. The Warden gave us passes into London and the keys to the Packard."

"A whole weekend pass," Goniff added, his grin reaching ear to ear. "I know this great little club in Soho, where the dames are just..." He smirked and sketched an hour glass with his hands. Then he noticed Hannah and blushed. "Sorry, luv..."

She gave Goniff a pat on the cheek. "You're such a gentleman."

"C'mon, Actor's got the engine runnin'," Casino urged, but then backed off with a glance at Hannah, sensing the uneasiness in the air.

When Chief stood, he felt the pull and sting of the scabbed over slash down his belly. "Sure. Sounds like fun."

"I'll let you know what happens," Hannah whispered.

"Yeah, alright." He downed his remaining beer and pulled on his jacket "See ya around, huh?" Then he followed Casino and Goniff up the stairs and out the door, without looking back.


End file.
